


Oblivion

by Mia_Zeklos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2329577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mia_Zeklos/pseuds/Mia_Zeklos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The game they’ve been playing for the last twenty years is over and there’s nothing left behind. Coda to The Reichenbach Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently with Sherlock, my fanfics tend to be short, blunt and in present tense. I can’t really explain it. Can’t say I’m complaining, either, even though this one is quite short. It just felt natural this way.  
> As you can see, it takes place during the ending scene of The Reichenbach Fall and it’s from Sherlock’s point of view and I’d really love what you think. I’m still new to writing fics for this fandom, so I’m anxious about it.

“ _I invented Moriarty_.”

 

Sherlock looks back at the body as he speaks. Jim’s eyes are wide open; his mouth still twisted into a smile and Sherlock is angry and bitter and scared, but most of all confused.

 

His mind realises fully well that this is just an act. This conversation with John, his death, all of it. He’s gone through the plan with Mycroft a million times and everything is expected to pass smoothly.

 

His mind knows all of this, but his body seems to be betraying him. There’s no explanation for the trembling in his voice or the clenching in his throat when he looks at him, and yet there they are. And if there’s one lesson he’s learnt from all of this is that any lie would be convincing enough if it’s hidden in truths, and there’s no lie in that sentence. He’d invented Moriarty as much as Moriarty had invented him, and he’s tired of dancing around it, so he says it. Plain and simple.

 

John, of course, refuses to believe a word he says, so Sherlock keeps going, reciting out the words he’s prepared, and now the hand holding the phone is shaking as well. It’s ridiculous and he knows it. They’ve been heading for this moment for months, and if Jim Moriarty wants to die, even if it’s out of boredom, then that’s his own problem.

 

Except it’s not, not anymore, and Sherlock is standing next to the shell that’s left of him, and his mind is uselessly, irrationally going through the possible scenarios for tonight and, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, the detective knows that he’s subconsciously looking for a solution that he’s too late to offer. A word he had or hadn’t said, a gesture, a look, _anything_. Anything that would have been able to change the way things are now.

 

It’s an illogical way of thinking, just as it had been illogical to shout out ‘No!’ on impulse and look away when Jim had pulled the trigger. It’s illogical to want to step back from the edge and kneel down next to him and close his eyes because he can’t bear seeing him like that a moment longer; not with those eyes still wide open, piercing through everything and taking it in even in death. It doesn’t fit anywhere in Sherlock’s head and that’s why it scares him so much. It terrified him to know that Jim had wormed his way into his head and torn everything apart; it terrifies him to realise that the only person who’d been able to do that is lying behind his back now, lifeless like a puppet with its strings cut off and he doesn’t _understand_. The human brain – especially his own – isn’t supposed to be contradictory. One single man isn’t supposed to be capable of such a thing.

 

It had been brilliant. Sherlock barely dares to admit it even now, but the thrill of it all had been magnificent, and he should have realised earlier that something like that couldn’t have lasted as long as he’d wanted – _needed_ – it to. No one that burns so bright can burn for long, and Jim Moriarty is the brightest person he’d ever met, and Sherlock knows that he would go blind just to watch him dance and he’s almost ashamed to acknowledge it, even in front of himself.

 

“ _I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who would listen to you_.”

 

They had all been rather disturbed by the joy he took from this from the very beginning, after all. The game they've been playing for the last twenty years is over, there’s nothing left behind and Sherlock fully realised that he has to disappear for quite a while, so they deserve to hear the truth.

 

“ _I created Moriarty for my own purposes_.”


End file.
